She took his arm and he crossed the room with her to the corner fireplace. He was still obviously reluctant to stay but was rapidly losing the ability to make a decision; by the minute he grew more dazed and weak. Now he dropped onto the cushioned couch with a heavily drawn sigh, his eyes already closed. He shuddered frequently, as though very cold, but sweat had soaked through the back of his coat—Amber left him and ran swiftly and softly into the bedroom, returning with a satin quilt which she flung over him.
Then, sure that he could not get up and would probably fall asleep, she ran into the kitchen and began to search the cabinets for the herbs Nan had stocked there. As she found them she sprinkled some of each that she needed into a kettle: hawkweed and hound’s-tongue and sorrel for the nausea; marigold and purslane for fever; hellebore, spikenard and nightshade for headache. Each had been gathered according to astrological tables, under exactly the right planetary influences, and she had considerable faith in their efficacy.
She poured some warm water into the kettle and hung it on a crane, but the fire had almost gone out and she threw on some more coals from the scuttle and a few chips of wood to make it burn, kneeling while she worked the bellows. At last a bright flame sprang up and she ran back into the parlour to make sure that he was all right, though she had not heard any sound.
He was lying flat on his back but the quilt had fallen off and he was moving restlessly, his eyes closed but his face contorted. As she bent over him, tucking in the quilt again, he looked up at her; and then suddenly he reached out and grabbed her wrist, giving it a savage jerk.
“What are you doing!” His voice was thickened and hoarse and the words slurred one over another. The green-grey irises of his eyes glittered, but the eyeballs were congested and red. “I told you to get out of here—Now, get out!” He almost shouted the last words and flung her arm from him furiously.
Amber was scared, for she thought he was losing his mind, but she forced herself to answer him in a calm reasonable voice. “I’m brewing the tea for you, Bruce, and it’ll be ready in a little while. Then you can go. But lie still till then, and rest.”
He seemed to return all at once to full rationality. “Amber—please! Please go and leave me alone! I’ll probably be dead by tomorrow—and if you stay you’ll get it too!” He started to sit up but she forced him down again with a sudden swift shove and he collapsed back onto the cushions. At least, she thought, I’m stronger than he is; he can’t get away.
For a moment she waited, hanging over him anxiously, but he lay perfectly still, and at last she turned and tip-toed swiftly from the room. She was so nervous that her hands and even her knees shook; she picked up a pewter mug and dropped it with a loud clatter that made her heart jump sickeningly. But as she stooped to get it, she heard noises from the other room.
Grabbing up her skirts she rushed back to the parlour and found him standing in the middle of the floor, looking about in a dazed bewildered way. With a cry she ran toward him.
“Bruce! What are you doing!”
He turned and gave her a defiant glare, raising one arm to ward her off, muttering a curse beneath his breath. She grabbed hold of him and he gave her a shove that almost knocked her off her feet, but as she staggered backward she clutched frantically for him and dragged him along with her. He stumbled, tried to save himself from falling, and both of them crashed to the floor, Amber half pinned beneath him. He lay there perfectly still, eyes and mouth open, unconscious.
For a moment Amber remained where she was, stunned, and then she crawled out from beneath him and got to her feet. Bending, she put her hands under his arm-pits to try to drag him to the bed-chamber; but he was a foot taller and eighty pounds heavier than she and she could scarcely move him. She pulled and tugged frantically and was beginning to cry with terror and desperation, when she remembered that Tempest and Jeremiah were most likely upstairs in their quarters.
Whirling about she sped through the kitchen and up the back flight of stairs, bursting into their room without even a knock. They were lounging, looking out the windows and smoking, and they stared at her in amazement.
“Tempest! Jeremiah!” she cried. “Come with me!”
She turned and rushed back out of the room and down the stairs so fast she seemed almost to glide. The two men knocked out their pipes and followed her, through the kitchen and the dining-room back into the parlour where they found Bruce once more standing erect, though his feet were spread wide to brace himself and his shoulders weaved slowly from side to side. Amber ran to place herself before him and the two men followed, but remained at a timid distance, watching him uncertainly. He started forward, glaring menacingly from one to the other, as though to clear a path for himself. He looked like a man so drunk that he was about to pitch forward onto his face.
Amber watched him like one hypnotized, and as he came toward her she stepped aside to let him pass. Her hands went out involuntarily, for he looked as though he would fall at any moment, but she did not touch him. He went through the doorway and into the anteroom, then out onto the landing and for a moment he stood at the top of the staircase, like a colossus looking down. He took one step and then another, but suddenly he gave a groan and staggered, clutching at the railing. Amber screamed and the two men rushed past her in time to keep him from falling headlong. Supported by one on either side, he allowed himself to be half dragged back into the apartment; his head had dropped forward onto his chest and he was again in an almost unconscious stupor.
She led the way into the bedroom, throwing back the counterpane and quilts and indicating that they were to lay him there on the white silk sheets. Then immediately she pulled off his shoes and peeled down his stockings. They were, she noticed, coloured strangely yellow by his sweat which had a sharp unpleasant smell that was not natural to him. She unwound the sash from about his waist and had begun to work off the coat, when all at once she remembered Tempest and Jeremiah and glanced up swiftly to find them staring at her with white-faced horror. They had just realized, she knew, that they had been helping a man who was not drunk—but sick of the plague.
“Get out of here!” she muttered at them, furious to see the craven terror on their faces, and with their mouths still open they turned and dashed from the room, slamming the door violently behind them.
His shirt was so wet that it clung to his skin and she picked up her smock which had been left lying on the floor to wipe him dry. When she had removed all of his clothes she covered him again and took the pillow from beneath his head, for she knew that he never used one. He lay quietly on his back now, though from time to time he muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath.
She left him again and ran swiftly back to the kitchen. The water on the herbs had boiled down, but not far enough, and while she waited she searched the cupboards for what provisions might be on hand. But she had had all her meals sent in and could find only some orange-cakes, a bowl of cherries, several bottles of wine and one of brandy. While she made a mental list of the things she must get she stood and watched the bubbling mess, her ears alert for any sound he might make. And then at last she swung the crane out and filled the pewter mug she had ready. The smell was nauseating, but she wrapped the handle in a towel and went back to the bedroom.
Bruce was lying there, leaning on one elbow and looking at her as she came in. She saw that he had just vomited onto the floor. His expression was humble and contrite and as guilty as though he had just done some shameful thing, for the sickness humiliated him. He seemed to want to speak to her, but could only drop back exhausted onto the bed. Amber had heard of men who felt well in the morning and were dead of the plague by night—but until now it had not seemed possible to her that a disease could make such swift terrible progress.